Argus Filch
by bobbyneuneuille
Summary: Argus Filch had been a boy full of dreams.


Argus Filch was a bitter man. Born in a family of common wizards, whether brilliant nor rich, he had lived the first ten years of his life waiting for something extraordinary to happen. Those ten first years had been nothing, he would only begin living from the eleventh on. His older sister had been going to Hogwarts for two years already, and he was waiting for the owl who would bring his letter. Argus was living in the obvious certainty that he was made for the wizarding world. How could it have been any other way? The young boy had his whole career figured out: he would be an Auror. What else could he become, the important little boy who lived only for Hogwarts? Granted, he had not shown his magic yet. But this could only mean that it was too powerful to be unleashed without control. He _had_ to control it, to prove that he was better than the muggle children. From his bedroom, he could see them playing outside. He had tried to get to know them and to share their games, once. Hesitantly, a bit shy, he had come forward: '' Hello, my name is Argus, I am a wizard. May I play with you?''. They had made fun of him. Of his name, first. ''Argus? What kind of person has such a name?'' they had said. And magic. The other boys did not believe in magic, and Argus had been unable to show them. Things had turned bad and Argus had ended up in a fight against four little Muggles. His mother, alerted by the scrap, had brought him home. There, furious, she had scolded him like never before, telling him that there was no greater shame for a wizard than to fight with Muggles. Argus's parents had never been against Muggles, but the little boy had understood everything wrong. Whereas his mother was forbidding him to fight against children unable to protect themselves if his magic were to explode, he had understood that there was nothing worse than being a Muggle. And he had continued growing up believing these tales.

His eleventh birthday came and went. He had felt a little anxious when the owl had not shown itself. But his birthday was in January, and it was far too early anyway. His sister always received her own letter in August. But this year, his sister's third letter came, and he still had not received anything. He had begun to be afraid. And there had been those discussions between his parents, sometimes including his sister, which would always stop when he would walk in.

His parents, in the end, had worked up the courage to talk to little Argus. Tell him that he was a Squib. That he would never become an Auror.

Argus, for the first time, did not see his sister off to Hogwarts. He could not. Not when he was not allowed to. She did not insist. For days, he did not talk. Did not eat, and would not sleep. He had lived ten years, ten years! For nothing. The eleventh would be just the same. No moving stairs, no Sorting ceremony, no Quidditch. No nothing. Instead, his parents' house, the school around the corner, everyday Muggles. Those infuriating Muggles, devoid of imagination.

Argus started hating everything. He would not go to school, would not talk to his parents. His sister's letters would receive no answer.

When he turned 18 (he had refused to celebrate his 17th birthday as a wizard), he left the family house. Irresponsible and bitter, he grew up too quickly between streets and pubs. He did not belong to any world. He did not even belong to himself.

When Dumbledore found him, he was walking the path of nightmares in which he had not even the lead role. Dumbledore, with his first name so much like his, and his story so unlike his own. He bought him a meal, let him sleep it off. He did not tell Argus who he was. He tried to find a way into his dark mind, brought him to the castle.

Argus sincerely thought that Dumbledore, being the hero he was, had only sought to help him. And there he was, he, the Squib, at Hogwarts. Anew, he felt emotions. The immensity of the castle overwhelmed him. All this magic would make him a bit bitter. He was bewitched by Quidditch. Oh! If only he could have played! If only he could have been equal to these children who, innocent and oblivious, would get the floor dirty after a game, a snowball fight or a lecture in the greenhouse Nr.3. Merlin, he would even have liked to be Peeves!

He begun looking for magic courses and reading theory books on magic. He could have passed his O.W.L.S. without problem, if he had been a student. Only the practical part, this magic spark, was missing, standing between him and his childhood dreams.

When he received the Kwikspell's answer, a bit dry, polite, but final, letting him know that nothing, ever, would allow him to one day let a feather hover after whispering '' _Wingardium leviosa''_ , he realised that ironically, the only spell he would have liked to cast would have been a decided '' _Obliviate_ '', letting him return to a boring, normal Muggle life.

Really, magic was the worst thing that could be for Argus Filch, the young boy full of dreams that he was.


End file.
